


I'd Give You Anything (But Can I Take from You, Too?)

by peanutbutterpianist



Series: Firsts Are Complicated (Should They Be?) [6]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Couch Cuddles, Developing Relationship, Eros Katsuki Yuuri, Fluff, Injury Recovery, Kissing, M/M, Minor Injuries, Reading Aloud, Sickfic, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri, communication is important kids, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanutbutterpianist/pseuds/peanutbutterpianist
Summary: Fact: Yuuri wants to jump Victor's bones. Wants to French kiss him like a maniac.But not today.His fiancé, true to form, always seems to be oblivious, distracted, or otherwise unconscious whenever Yuuri wants to even try.When Victor overworks himself at practice, all Yuuri's thoughts of Eros and not-Eros have to be shelved. It's time to take care of Victor, not think about taking from him....Right?





	I'd Give You Anything (But Can I Take from You, Too?)

**Author's Note:**

> First Kiss--Eros Style?
> 
> I received a request for a first kiss installment, which at first I wasn't planning on, because I wanted to steer clear of stereotypes and tropes in this series, but I got to thinking and figured, 'oh, I can do a short little fluffy insert about Yuuri wanting to French kiss Victor for the first time' and leave it at that.
> 
> I ended up with a 10k+ monster of fluff and internal monologues. Forgive me?
> 
> Thank-you, reviewers and fans!

            There were two types of kisses, Yuuri thought. Two _very_ _distinct_ types of kisses.

There were kisses—which could give, which could comfort, which could just _be_ and felt plenty nice. Everyday kisses. Normal kisses. He and Victor were pretty good at these, and getting _better_ all the time.

Yuuri liked these, embarrassing as they could be from time to time.

And then there were _kisses_ —the sort that _took_ , that were demanding and sensual and involved things like _tongue_ and probably led to _other things_. _Kisses_ were probably driven by _Eros_ , Yuuri figured. Which would explain quite well why he had essentially _no experience whatsoever_ with them outside of movies and the occasional raunchy graphic novel he’d been goaded into reading back in high school.

No experience? Really? Nope. Not even with Victor, which was kind of amazing, seeing how much the Russian _loved_ their everyday, normal kisses. Hell, the man even kisses _his_ _dog_ on the head and paws sometimes. Kisses his medals. Kisses the side of the ceramic container they keep their coffee grounds in on early mornings.

Yuuri shook his head with a smirk.

            Of course, Victor was a Perfect Gentleman above just about everything else (except for _Doggy-Daddy of the Year_ and _Silliest Grown-Ass Man_ , in Yuuri’s opinion), and so they hadn’t actually gone ahead and _kissed_ yet. Not with _that_ kind of passion behind it, not _really_. Or at least not on Yuuri’s end of things—he couldn’t _actually_ read Victor’s mind, after all.

Not _kissing_ like that was _really amazing_ in light of all the _other things_ they’d started experimenting with lately.

 _Ahem_.

            Now when it came to run-of-the-mill kisses—the _giving_ sorts of kisses, kisses that could felt secure and just _be happy_ and _nice_ and _undemanding_ —Yuuri had kissed Victor _plenty_ of times, even before moving in to Victor’s apartment in St. Petersburg. Each very deliberate, each very intentional. He could recall the time and place of each and every one of them, as a matter of fact.

            There was the one in Hasetsu, not too many weeks after Victor had shown up at the family _onsen_ in his birthday suit; he’d kissed Victor quickly, hurriedly on the crown of his head, where the man _was definitely not going bald, give it rest, Victor_. The platinum strands _were_ a little more spread out there, admittedly, but they felt as soft as the finest silk tie against Yuuri’s lips. He’d just been curious, after poking Victor on that very spot earlier that day with a gloved hand that couldn’t really _feel_ much, after all.

            It felt nice.

            There was that time in China, after their highly-publicized kiss, back in their hotel room. He’d planted his lips firmly on the rosy bridge of Victor’s nose, breathing softly against alabaster skin with something akin to _wonder_ making his entire being feel like he was drifting through some sort of otherworldly dream.

            But then he’d stubbed his toe on the nightstand not long after, and _nope, this was all definitely real._

            Then, back in Hasetsu, after they’d both settled down for dinner with Yuuri’s family plus Minako and a well-and-energetic Makkachin, Yuuri had fondly watched Victor and Mari and Minako engage in some ludicrous drinking competition; it had something to do with _who was Yuuri’s biggest fan_ or something equally ridiculous. He’d kissed Victor thrice— _thrice!—_ giggly himself from the atmosphere alone. Once along the exposed column of his neck, then against the quiet thrum of his pulse, and once more on the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. He couldn’t have held back even if he’d tried: a drunk-flushing Victor in a too-loose robe with his precious dog trying worm into his lap was _too adorable._

            And of course, in Barcelona he’d _wanted_ to kiss Victor three or four or maybe _twenty-thousand_ times, but he got away with just one, right between his shoulder blades. It was the longest kiss he’d given Victor so far: lingering, soft, even a little wet. He’d been watching Victor quietly breathe under the glow of Spanish moonlight, lounging like a casually shirtless model even with his fruit-printed pajama pants halfway falling off. _Snow_ _personified_ , all graceful and calm; the feelings he so easily gave to Yuuri had blanketed the younger man in something so subtly overwhelming that he could only manage that one, barely-a-kiss kiss. It felt _perfect_ regardless.

            Quality over quantity, Yuuri figured.

           

            But they all had one thing in common:

            Victor had been _asleep_ through them all..

            _Every. Single. One._

Completely unaware.

Since moving in with the Russian, Yuuri found himself giving these sort of kisses more frequently, even feeling a little _bolder_ from time to time.

            A few on Victor’s cherry-tinted cheeks, dozens on the forehead, the occasional post-shower damp shoulderblade, once on his bad knee, and even a handful on the lips. _Wow._

At least Victor had been conscious for about half of them. His batting average was going up, _finally_.

            Not that Yuuri minded all that much. It was just that…well, anything _more_ seemed to be _Victor’s_ thing to initiate, anyway. He was good at it, after all. Victor was a natural at scooping Yuuri up like a blushing bride and kissing the living daylights out of him. He was _good_ at peppering the back of Yuuri’s neck with little pecks in the kitchen while the Japanese man worked on dinner. He was _fantastic_ at making good-morning-kisses, which by all logic should be completely _gross,_ seem like something out of a teen romance novel.

            So Yuuri hardly ever got the _chance_ to kiss Victor of his own volition. Not in the giving, selfless sense of the word.

            Did he want more? Of course. All the time. He wanted to _give_ Victor a kiss someday. He wanted to pin Victor down and do something _deeper_ than their usual smooches (they had a _usual,_ now? Apparently so. _Huh_.) and leave the elder male breathless and mussed-up, for a change.

            Or at least to try something with…dare he say, a little bit of _tongue?_ Or something? Hell, what were _kisses_ supposed to involve, aside from Eros?

            _Hmm_.

            The thought would have been deemed _gross_ just a handful of months prior, but everything with Victor seemed to change from _awkward_ and _weird_ and _gross_ to _charming_ and _exciting_ and _adorable_. Things like morning breath and drool and accidentally grabbing the wrong toothbrush. _What the hell,_ honestly?

            He’d almost _kissed_ Victor once—in their hotel room in Barcelona. It was an _almost_ because whatever fire building in him that had threatened to _take_ with his lips ended up simmering back in the cooler recesses of his head because _how could he?_ How could he even _think_ of taking advantage of Victor like that, when the silver-haired man was on the verge of tears and just _needed_ Yuuri?—and not in the _Eros_ sense of _needing_. So that wannabe _kiss_ sort-of turned right back into a regular _giving_ kiss as soon as their lips had met, but Yuuri’s heart couldn’t quite place the act into either category cleanly.

            Which wasn’t entirely fair, really, because he was trying to _give_ to Victor, sure, but something in the back of his head had still wanted to _take_ , and.

Well.

That just wasn’t _right,_ was it?

            _Was it?_

            Still, everything aside, he kind of wanted to try _kissing_ Victor again, like in Barcelona. And maybe not shy back into that weird grey-space of Eros-but-not-Eros.

            _Wait_.

Scratch that: he _definitely_ wanted to try _kissing_ Victor. Eros and all.

            And Yuuri _had_ been trying. Honestly, he had. He’d been trying _very_ hard. But he knew that he didn’t have the courage to just _jump Victor’s bones_ , and that he lacked the easy charisma necessary to _sweep him off his feet_. He couldn’t just _take_ Victor, right? So perhaps he could _hint_ at what he wanted. Maybe even _ask_ for it _._ Asking for things had worked remarkably well thus far for other things: he’d been rewarded with a shared bed, the occasional release of, er, _tension_ in the shower, some backrubs which also ended up helping release some _tension_ , too, and…oh, and a pretty even distribution of chores.

But it seemed that every time he thought about asking for a _kiss_ , Victor was…

            Well, _distracted,_ frankly. By a text from Christophe. By a caterwaul from Yurio. By some routine-related idea that he just _had_ to share with Yuuri _right now_. By Makkachin for any and every reason under the sun. By how _delicious_ dinner was, _Thank-you so much, Yuuri, you’re so wonderful!_ By _Did you know you have freckles on your back, Yuuri? They’re so cute!_ By _Oh, you’re ticklish? Wow!_

            It was getting frustrating. The timing was never right.

            Would it _ever_ be, at this rate?

            Yuuri looked down at the mop of silver hair splayed out atop his chest and sighed, though not unhappily so. It was _way too early_ for any of this, he mused, grasping Victor’s nearest hand and pressing his lips softly to the inside of the Russian’s wrist. True to form, the older man didn’t budge except to belatedly nuzzle his cheek against the growing drool-spot on Yuuri’s flannel shirt. Of course, Yuuri wanted to give him a _giving_ kiss, and Victor was blissfully unaware. As always.

Oh well. He planted another one to the ring on his finger, because _hell_ , if the man was sleeping, at least there was no risk of embarrassment, right?

            One of these days, Yuuri might feel confident enough to jump Victor’s bones and _French kiss him like a maniac_ , but today was not going to be _that_ day, he decided, feeling a flush sneaking up on his own cheeks as he set to counting the tiny freckles in a patch on Victor’s forearm.

 

            It was the start of _hell_ _week_ , apparently.

            Yurio had dubbed it such after Yakov’s rant on his students’ lack of stamina. Yuuri felt a little guilty as he listened in, sipping at his lukewarm coffee and catching about every third Russian word. He knew Yakov was referencing him heavily, between the mentions of _Katsuki_ every so often paired with the daggers Yurio was throwing him with his eyes.

            _Whoops_.

            _Hell_ _week_ was apparently to include less in the way of advanced jumps and more work on building endurance with more technically simple maneuvers and plenty of step sequences, but for longer stretches than usual. Each modified day was to be alternated with a day of normal practice paired with a long run.

            The first day wasn’t as bad as anticipated, apparently. Victor was a little more tired than usual, but he was still chipper and chatty on their walk home. They took a slower pace, but that was fine.

            The second day, Victor was happy to return to a more normal routine, and didn’t complain about the added run—unlike Yurio and Mila—but he cut Makkachin’s walk short that evening. Yuuri tried not to worry about that, passing the poodle a secret scrap of chicken under the table at dinner as an apology. Victor didn’t even notice, too busy staring at his mound of green beans like it was a Dostoyevsky novel.

_Hmm._

            The third day, Yurio complained even more, but the boy was doing _great_ , Yuuri thought. His spins were cleaner, his glides crisper, his frame more loose than anyone had seen in a long while, according to Lilia.

            Mila and Georgi were doing well, too: by the time their break rolled around that day, they actually decided to stay a few minutes longer just to prance around each other, trying to outlast each other’s spins and sink into progressively lower Ina Bauers. They were having _fun_ , obviously, which was kind of weird—Yuuri had never heard Georgi _laugh_ before. The whole ordeal felt like hot cocoa to his insides, warm and heavy and a bit saccharine, but not unpleasant.

            “Yuuchitka!” Mila’s melodious chirp sounded across the ice. “You’re warmed up already, right? Come join us!” Her English was heavily accented, but her smile was bright and sweet. Yuuri couldn’t help but speed over, reminded of goof-sessions with Phichit back in Detroit.

            But he glanced up at the wall clock on his way there, noting that Victor _should_ be there any minute to start working with him.

            Where _was_ Victor?

            The elder male _did_ show up a while later, combing his hair back with a gloved hand before turning to wave at his pupil and rinkmates, laughing a little and staying back to watch for a bit. His face looked flushed, but Yuuri figured it was probably from amusement: Yuuri _knew_ he had looked ridiculous pulling silly poses to whatever techno-pop tune Georgi had been blasting out of his phone, after all. But those dips he and Mila swapped around? _Flawless_. Victor was surely proud of those—Yuuri was, for a change, and it felt pretty great.

            Victor was _fine_. A little… _off,_ maybe, but fine. Right? He didn’t give as many examples as usual, but that was okay. He still darted in and out of Yuuri’s personal space to correct his form or adjust the line of his shoulders, which was plenty helpful.

            But he eventually let Yuuri loose _on his own_ , asking to take a few minutes to sit on the sidelines. That was _odd_ , but it was nearing the end of their scheduled time on the ice, anyway. Maybe he was just tired out.

            But the sight of Victor making stiff strides to the gate made Yuuri’s chest unbearably tight. He ran through his step sequence once more, just to be able to say he did it if asked, and promptly darted off to seek his coach.

            He wasn’t on the sidelines, flopped on the benches, milling about, pestering Yakov or Yurio… _anywhere_. Yuuri swallowed hard, removed his skates with flying fingers, and darted into the locker room.

            Oh, there he was.

            “Victor, _there_ you are—you scared me half to death! I thought maybe you’d gone home witho— _Victor_?” Yuuri stopped as he came around to his fiancé’s front.

            He was hunched over, eyes screwed shut, breathing hard. His face was flushed a dark, _dark_ crimson. He looked up slowly when Yuuri approached.

            “Oh, Yuuri?” His voice was hoarse. _What the hell?_ “Sorry, I’m just not…feeling too well, I guess?” He laughed a little, the sound little more than a huff.

            Yuuri _tsked_ , but stalked forward to put the back of his hand to Victor’s forehead; it was much too warm, and absurdly sticky with sweat. _Crap._ “Did you overdo it? What’s wrong, what hurts?”

            “Ah, it’s okay, Yuuri, I’m—”

            He halted abruptly, as though he’d run out of air to speak with, flinching and clutching at his side.

            Yuuri sat beside him with a sympathetic wince, though he really just wanted to kneel before his coach and hold his face in his hands until Victor _had_ to look at him. But he needed to give Victor his privacy, too. So he rubbed at the Russian’s back instead with gentle, circular motions, and leaned against his side without any real weight, just enough to press their shoulders together and _be there_.

            “It’s okay, you know. To speak up when something hurts.” Yuuri tried to sound supportive. Whatever the hell that meant.

            “I know.”

 _Hmm._ “It’s been a rough couple of days, and you’ve been out of this sort of training for awhile.” _No one is judging you_ , he added, silently.

            “I know.”

            _Dammit._ “I love you.”

            “I know.”

            Yuuri didn’t think he was getting anywhere; Victor was starting to sound like a broken record.

            Time to try something different?

            He cleared his throat lightly. “I think you’re wonderful, Victor.”

            “I…I know.”

            He peeked at his fiancé’s face, and saw that it wasn’t as terribly red all over, but that his flush continued to glow on the tops of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He looked like he was holding back a smirk. Or a laugh. Or something else.

            Yuuri decided to knock the sides of their temples together, then, and Victor let go of a real laugh that time, though it was still breathless and soft. It undid some of the knots in Yuuri’s chest.

            “Thanks, _lyubov moya._ I might need some help getting up; everything feels a little stiff.”

            “Sure, sure.”

            _Help, indeed._

Victor _sort of_ made it to his feet, a quivery smile in place. But he all but _screamed_ when he tried to take a step forward.

            “Victor! Victor, what’s wrong, what hurts?”

            The elder male collapsed right back onto the bench, letting out a furious snake’s hiss, eyes shut and jaw set tight. “Everything from the hips down. And my side again.” At least he was being honest about it.

            “ _Vitya! Katsuki!_ What’s going on back here?”

            Yakov?

            “You’d better not be doing anything _gross_ back there, you stupid old men!”

            Oh, Yurio must have come, too.

            Yuuri bolted for the door to the locker room after glimpsing the immediate look of _panic_ scribbling across Victor’s face. He headed off the pair of agitated Russians before they could cross the threshold.

            “It’s okay,” he said, low, once he was close enough to do so. “Victor just pushed himself a little too hard, I think. Overused his legs, maybe pulled some abs?”

            Yakov smacked a hand to his own face, grumbling something Yuuri couldn’t translate. He didn’t look… _mad,_ exactly. Which was a good thing? Maybe?

            “Damn stupid geezer,” Yurio huffed out, though his previously taut frame visibly relaxed from the line of his shoulders down. “I _knew_ this would happen, he’s too _old_ to—”

            “He shouldn’t walk home. Don’t let him.” Yakov’s cold-tongued interruption was surprising, but Yuuri blinked wide eyes at him, grateful for some sort of definitive thing to _actually do about it_. When had Yuuri’s hands started to quiver? “Call a cab. Or if your Russian isn’t good enough yet, make Yuri do it.”

            _Directions_. _Ah_.

            Okay. He could do that. _Good_.

            “T-Thank-you, Yakov. And I can handle the cab, I think, Yurio—”

            “Don’t call me that, pig—”

            “But I think Victor would appreciate not being crowded right now.” He tried to keep his voice firm despite the fine tremble in his chest. It must have worked, because Yakov gave a single, curt nod, his face surprisingly at peace, and all but dragged Yurio with him back to the rink, ignoring the blond’s angry splutters.

            Yuuri set to calling for a taxi, pointedly ignoring Victor’s protests, which rapidly degenerated into pet-store-worthy, overdramatic whines. He must not be in _too_ much pain while seated at least, Yuuri figured.

He tuned him out to focus on the call, or, at least he tried to.

_Sigh._

Yuuri managed to quiet his fiancé by coming to stand beside the edge of the bench where he was settled, gently pulling him into a one-armed embrace. Victor only continued to mumble for half a minute more, his words muffled against Yuuri’s collarbone, until his frame finally unwound and he leaned into Yuuri’s torso.

            Yuuri wasn’t sure if Victor was so quiet after that because he felt uncomfortable or maybe _embarrassed_ , or because he was just _that_ tired.

He wasn’t sure which possibility was worse.

 

            Yuuri didn’t fail to notice the look of absolute _dread_ flooding his fiancé’s expression upon exiting the taxi: while Yuuri paid the driver and thanked him in halting Russian, Victor was leaning against the side of the vehicle and craning his neck up at their apartment complex like a lost country boy looking up at _One Detroit Center_ for the first time.

            That _look_ was quickly thrusting dozens of daggers into the spaces between Yuuri’s ribs. As the car pulled away, he turned to older man, holding him steady by the elbows.

            “Victor,” he said, trying not to fidget himself, “It’s okay; it’s not all that far. I can probably carry you, if you need me to—”

            “ _No._ ” The word came swiftly, but without any malice to it. Victor’s eyes were glassy. He didn’t say anything more, though he looked like he might have wanted to. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly in discomfort, and Yuuri’s stomach churned with the motion.

            “Okay,” Yuuri said after awhile, feeling Victor start to quiver a little bit from standing so long. He slid an arm around the Russian’s back and slipped his shoulder under the nearest armpit. “Go ahead and lean on me as much as you want, though. I’ve got you.”

            Victor took in a _very_ sharp breath at that, and blinked several times in rapid succession. Yuuri thought Victor might protest, or maybe _cry_ , but instead he remained silent and gave a stiff nod.

            It took awhile to get to the elevator, and the ride up took _way_ too long, too, judging by how Victor stumbled away from Yuuri into a corner to rest against the cool metal, eyes shut for a moment. Yuuri had half a mind to scoop him up and just _carry_ him the rest of the way down the hall and into their apartment like the dramatic princess he was, but before he could even berate himself for such a thought, the doors opened and Victor hobbled out alone into the hallway. He fumbled in his pockets for the key while Yuuri shook himself from his shocked stupor enough to gather their bags again and scurry after the older man. The elevator doors _almost_ closed on him, snagging his left heel in the process.

            “Victor, slow down; wait for me!”

            Victor dropped onto the couch, face first, before Yuuri could even get the front door closed and locked. He slipped his coat and shoes off, which Victor hadn’t bothered to do, and set their bags back in the bedroom before approaching his fiancé.

            The cold blades still stuck between Yuuri’s ribs twisted.

            “ _Victoru_?” He dropped to his knees beside the sofa and put a hand to the other’s back, and was surprised to feel him _flinch_. He pulled away, and Victor whined something unintelligible. “Victor, what’s wrong?” No response. “I’m sorry, did that hurt?” he tried instead.

            Victor’s face shot up from the cushion it was buried into. “No! No, not at all, you didn’t do anything wrong, Yuuri, I’m sorry—”

            Yuuri returned his hand to the spot at the small of his back again, silencing his ramble. Victor dropped his gaze to some point in the crook of his own elbow. Yuuri felt his eyebrows draw together into a taut line as he took in the look on the older man’s face.

            Victor’s cheeks were flushed with what could only be _embarrassment_ , the rest of his face bordering on green-gray, and _good God_ he looked miserable.

            Yuuri sighed and knelt down, getting to work at removing Victor’s boots.

            “Um, what are you doing, Yuuri?”

            “You can’t go all evening with your boots and coat on. Makkachin would judge you for it.” Yuuri jerked his head over his shoulder, gesturing toward the poodle, who was watching the pair warily, tail thumping against the floor. “Here, can you sit up for a second?”

            “Mmm? Ah yeah, sure.” Victor wouldn’t meet his eyes as his coat was slipped off. Yuuri ducked back to the front door to hang it on the coat rack and place his boots beside his own tennis shoes.

            Victor just sat there on the couch, straight as a pin and hair a mess, looking more awkward than Yuuri had ever seen him, even more so than in that car park in China.

            Yuuri got him ice packs for the backs of his legs and some painkillers; Victor barely acknowledged the young man’s presence, allowing himself to be maneuvered around like a floppy doll with a blank expression.

            Yuuri slunk back into the kitchen, rubbing at his sternum absently as he pulled the whistling teakettle off the stove.

            No. _No._ Panicking would do no one any good. Yakov had been kind enough to give Yuuri his first task: to get Victor home safely. Now he just needed another assignment, another _something to do_. He kept his hands moving, dropping a tea bag into a poodle-printed coffee cup. _One thing at a time._

            “Here, drink this.” Yuuri thrust a mug of steaming, unsweetened tea into Victor’s hands.

            Victor blinked big doe-eyes up at him. He took a sip, obedient, and his face took on a quizzical twist. “Um, Yuuri, what’s this?”

            “Chamomile,” he answered, heading back to the kitchen quickly. “Mom sent some last month. It helps whenever I’m feeling anxious, or if I pull a muscle in practice.”

            “Oh. Okay.”

            Yuuri felt his heart stop at the small voice of his fiancé, but kept his hands busy; there were a couple of pieces of fresh fish in the fridge they’d bought the night before, so he decided to prep them.

            “What are you making in there?”

            Yuuri glanced up to see Victor trying to crane his neck over the back of the couch to unsuccessfully see into the kitchen. Normally he’d be hovering around, prodding around pointlessly but still managing to charm the Japanese skater with his endless supply questions and quirky grins.

            “Fish,” he answered after half a moment. “Mom and Minako always said fish is best for building muscle. But Phichit and I think that American-style hamburgers are even better. I kind of wish there was a burger joint near here; I’d get some for us.”

            Victor laughed a little at that. “Really, now?”

            “Yeah, in Detroit they put chili on them. It’s pretty great.”

            Victor tilted his head. “Chili? Like, the pepper? I thought Japanese hated peppers?”

            Yuuri chuckled behind his hand as he dropped the fish into a pan, watching them sizzle satisfactorily. “Racist assumption aside,” he chided good-naturedly, “no. I mean chili as in…well, it’s like a curry? Kind of? It’s meat and sauce, and kind of spicy? They put it on everything in America, I think.”

            “O-Oh.”

            Yuuri glanced up from salting the fish to see that the sliver of Victor’s face that he could see had paled further. “What? You don’t like chili?”

            “I think I had it once, with Chris,” he said, slowly. “We were both sick all night.”

            “Ah. That…that sucks. Maybe someday I can take you to Detroit, and you can try it again? If you want to of course!” he amended quickly. “I’d be sure to take you somewhere we wouldn’t get food poisoning from, I promise.”

            Victor didn’t quite laugh, but he gave a little lopsided smile that eased the tension in Yuuri’s chest a little.

            Victor didn’t say much the rest of the evening. He didn’t put up much of a fuss, either, as Yuuri made him finish his dinner and exchanged the ice packs for hot compresses and made him lie down on the couch while Yuuri cleaned up the kitchen.

            Yuuri had just returned from taking Makkachin on a walk and putting kibble in the dog bowl, when the late hour hit him full force. How did it get to be almost nine-thirty?

            “Victor, I’ll go draw you a bath; do you want to wash your hair, too?”

            The words had barely left Yuuri’s mouth by the time he rounded the couch to see that Victor obviously hadn’t heard him.

            He was out cold, expression drawn with tension but his breaths came long and slow, punctuated by the occasional hint of a snore. “Victor?” he prompted, more quietly, reaching out to shake his shoulder and balking at the last second.

            He couldn’t wake him. He just _couldn’t_. He could hardly bear to see Victor sleeping so fitfully; how could Yuuri expect himself to rouse him back into a world with little more than _pain_ to offer at the moment?

            So he didn’t.

            But he couldn’t just _leave him on the sofa_ , either; it wouldn’t be good for his neck, or back, or much of anything else, really.

            Well, forgoing any sort of bath, if he could just get Victor into bed, he could always wash the sheets later. And at least he was in comfortable track pants and a loose shirt and could be safely left in them.

            Yuuri knelt, just watching for a moment, and leaned in to press a gossamer kiss to the Russian’s cheek; it tasted salty, from sweat or tears, he didn’t know, and it was a little unnaturally warm. Though the kiss itself was short, Yuuri allowed himself a moment to linger, nose brushed against his fiancé’s cheek, just to feel him breathe, hot and a little fast, against his own cheek.

            _Good God_ , just _how_ had he gotten here again? Not so much this _position_ as…well, _here._ Yuuri’s chest felt like it was buzzing inside. He kind of wanted to _kiss_ his fiancé, but he also kind of wanted to curl up against his chest and _cry_.

            Task. Something to do. _Right_.

            He slipped his right hand under Victor’s knees, the other under his left armpit, and hoisted him up and into his arms and—

            _Oh._

            Oh, he was so…

            So _light._

            Had Victor lost weight recently? Or had he always been like this?

            Or was holding someone actually _this easy?_ Yuuri didn’t really know, he’d never really picked someone up before. Except maybe one of the triplets back home, and Yuuko once, back when they were in middle school. Neither of those counted, he figured.

            Well, it didn’t matter, really. Did it? Yuuri had _Victor_ _Nikiforov_ bundled up in his arms like a _bride_. Like a small child. Like…

            Well, it didn’t matter what it was like, either.

            _Screw the task._ At least for now.

            Yuuri just stood there for a couple of minutes, back against the living room wall, cradling the sleeping, softly breathing lump of _living human being_ that just happened to be his _fiancé_ against his chest. He wasn’t even sure if he was smiling, or crying, or what, but it didn’t really matter.

            Because this was _precious_ , wasn’t it? It had to be. _Dictionary definition?_ Maybe not. But he thought this was _absolutely_ precious, so that’s what he’d call it.

            He didn’t want to let go. Not now, probably not ever.

            If he didn’t get Victor to bed now, Yuuri realized he probably would just stay put, staring like some sort of creeper at his fiancé, until his arms and legs gave out. He could almost imagine the awkward pile of limbs they’d make on the floor. _Ha._

            He tucked Victor in as gingerly as he could; the older man never stirred, though his face looked a fraction less tense than it had earlier on the couch. He let the Russian lay on his back, legs stretched out straight but with a small pillow beneath his ankles—his feet looked exceptionally abused, after all. He left for a couple minutes—that felt like a couple minutes _too long_ , really—to brush his teeth and change, to check in on Makkachin, and turn off the lights in the rest of the apartment.

            He barely had time to allow his head to hit the pillow and to worm an arm over his love’s waist in a loose hold before the black void of sleep consumed his consciousness.

 

            Yuuri had forgotten to set an alarm, but it didn’t seem to matter much; he awoke out of habit to find his phone screen reading six-twenty-eight.

            Waking up on his own? On time? Well _that_ was a surprise.

            Oh, speaking of surprises. Yuuri wasn’t tangled up in Victor’s limbs, wasn’t being subjugated to drool on all manner of locations on his pajamas, wasn’t being clutched tight by a grip to rival an octopus’. His rear end wasn’t even being grabbed. _That_ was a surprise, too.

What an odd way to wake up, Yuuri mused, trying not to laugh at himself aloud because _when did waking up halfway normally become not-normal?_

Victor was in almost exactly the same position as Yuuri had left him, on his back, but with limbs a little more akimbo across the mattress and face much more relaxed. Yuuri let out a very, _very_ long breath of relief when he reached for Victor’s forehead and found that it wasn’t so terribly warm anymore.

            But Victor also didn’t stir, which was a little odd, but not unreasonable. He was probably still exhausted, and could certainly use every moment of _actual sleep_ he could get to let his muscles repair.

            Yuuri slipped his glasses on but stayed for a few minutes, eyes wandering across his fiancé’s form, just _watching_. Had his shoulders always been that broad? Had that dimple between his left and right clavicles always been there, just below the hollow of his throat? Had there always been little blue veins meandering like tributaries across the pale canvas of his skin, like Victor was actually a sculpture cut from a fine piece of white marble? Where had that little scar on his right shoulder come from? How could a grown man manage to look so _endearing_ and _innocent_ with his mouth hanging open like that, and why did Yuuri want to _kiss_ that mouth so badly, right then?

            _Damn Eros._

            It was a good time to get up, he figured.

            He set to making himself feel a little more normal, washing his face and banishing any morning breath, and took Makkachin for an early jog. He pulled his phone out as soon as he had locked the apartment door behind himself.

            “Ah, Yurio! I’m sorry about the early hour, I didn’t have Yakov’s number and I’m not sure where Victor put his phone—o-oh, no I didn’t mean to assume—okay, okay. Could you give Yakov a message for me?...umm, that’s not nec—Yakov? G-Good morning! I’m so sorry, but I don’t think Victor’s going to make it to practice today…no, he’s okay. We made it home fine last night…no, it’s fine, I swear! He wasn’t a problem at all….what? Oh, he’s still sleeping; I’m out walking Makkachin right now…was that Yurio? _Speakerphone_? O-Oh, I see; okay…no, I know my way around the area by now, I’m fine!...Hmm? Ah, I think he may have been running a bit of a fever last night, he seemed a bit warm, but he’s seems pretty normal this morning as far as I can tell…Oh, no, no! I used to do the same thing to myself all the time before Celestino took over my coaching, haha!...Mmm, yes, of course, I’ll make sure he doesn’t push himself…two days off? Okay. I’ll keep you posted on how he’s doing, unless he decides to call you himself of course…oh! Yes, that’s right; I probably won’t make it in this morning, but the rink frees up around six tonight, right? Could I come to practice a bit, then?...no, no, it’s fine! I can just come in early for the next week to make up the hours if I need to, I don’t mind…okay, thank-you for understanding, Yakov…okay, and thank-you, too, Yurio…haha, okay. Пока!”

            Yuuri watched as the puffy cloud of his breath dissipated, glanced down at Makkachin prodding at a melting patch of slushy snow, and felt something in his bones tingle, but not unpleasantly so.

            When he tried to sneak back into the apartment just shy of eight o’clock, hushing Makkachin’s excited barks in the hall outside, he was not prepared to spot his fiancé _in the kitchen_.

            There was already kibble in Makkachin’s bowl, the dishes Yuuri had left out to dry the night before were absent, and the teakettle was sitting over a low flame.

            And right in the middle of it all was Victor, in a pair of Yuuri’s plaid flannel pajama bottoms—which were just a tad bit too short, landing just above the jutting lines of the Russian’s ankles—and a long-sleeved black t-shirt. His hair was slicked back, dripping just a little—he must have showered.

            But he didn’t notice Yuuri and Makkachin’s entrance, which was a little odd. He _did_ look a little focused, though. When the teakettle whistled Just as Yuuri was locking the door behind himself, he reached for it only to let out a loud hiss, jumping back like a startled cat.

            “Victor!” Yuuri darted forward, unthinking, grasping his fiancé by his narrow hips before he could knock back into the opposite counter or lose his balance. “What happened? A burn? Muscle cramp?” The words were flying out his mouth.

            Victor blinked down at him, all wide eyes and slick hair, both of which looked almost charcoal grey right then. “Um, a little bit of both, I think?” He laughed a little bit, with plenty of helpless airiness and a flutelike charm to the sound. He turned to the sink to run his cradled hand under a stream of cold water. Yuuri dropped his hands from the older man’s hips hesitantly as he moved, letting his fingers linger probably a little longer than necessary and drift a bit farther down his thighs than appropriate.

            “Are you…are you _okay_ , Victor?”

            His breath caught audibly. “Um, yeah, I’m fine. A bit sore, but that’s to be expected, right?” He tossed a strained smirk over his shoulder.

            _That didn’t answer the question._

            Yuuri wanted to send him out of the kitchen right then and there, back to the couch. He kind of wanted to berate him for trying to _do too much_ when he was supposed to be _resting_.

            _But_.

            He wrapped his arms around his fiancé’s torso, pressing gently into his back. _You shouldn’t be pushing yourself if it hurts,_ his mind squawked. “I didn’t get to say good morning yet,” he said instead, softly. “So…good morning?”

            Victor was still for a long moment before the spring in his rigid spine suddenly went lax. He leaned forward against the counter and took one of Yuuri’s hands into his own to weave their fingers together before holding it back against his middle, just over his belly button. “Good morning, Yuuri,” he whispered.

            He sounded…a little _better_ , Yuuri decided. More like himself.

            Yuuri smiled into his back. “I walked Makkachin already. No mud puddle incidents. And I called Yakov; you’re off the hook for today. Maybe even tomorrow.”

            Victor seemed to bristle a little at that, which was puzzling except that it really _wasn’t._ “Okay.”

            The Japanese skater hummed to himself, searching for words. Was Victor…was he feeling…what, disappointed? Angry? Restless?

            Oh. _That_ made some sense.

            He wondered if he should tell Victor about all the times he overworked himself, back in Hasetsu before he had Celestino to berate him if he went so much as a minute over his allotted time on the ice. He thought about telling him about the time he collapsed in Minako-sensei’s studio, having gone in at two in the morning after several days of not sleeping, and had been found by the ballet master hours later with a rather impressive lump on his head from crashing into a balance beam. He’d been forbidden from both the studio and the ice for a solid week.

            He wanted to tell Victor that it was okay to take time off to recover, that he wasn’t being slow to adjust, that he wasn’t _too_ _old,_ that he wasn’t _useless_.

            But would that actually help? Would it make Victor feel any better?

            Was it what he _needed_ right now? A self-deprecating story?

            Probably not.

            “Thank-you for putting away the dishes,” Yuuri said instead. “I completely forgot about them when I got up. I’ve got some fancy green tea that mom sent us stored up in the pantry; would you like me to find it while you get our mugs?”

            Victor _immediately_ perked up, Yuuri’s words like liquid plant food on a pot of dry-stalked impatiens. _Oh._ “Okay! Thanks, Yuuri, that’d be great!”

            Within a couple of minutes, Victor managed to put the proper amount of tea leaves into their plain steel infuser balls and poured water from the kettle without burning himself again.

Success?

            Gauging by the smile on the Russian’s face, apparently so.

            “We should get new infuser balls,” Victor chirped around a mouthful of lightly-buttered bread that Yuuri had passed him.

            “What’s wrong with these?”

            “I saw some online the other day that were shaped like squirrels. _Squirrels,_ Yuuri! I’m willing to bet that someone makes dog ones, too. They’re so cute! We _have_ to get some!”

            Yuuri couldn’t help but laugh, at the idea as much as the crumbs clinging to Victor’s lips as they were licked away. “Okay, okay; I’ll look around for some with you later, and if we find one we like, we’ll treat ourselves after nationals. Deal?”

            He could practically see the wheels in Victor’s brain turning. “Yuuri, you’re starting to sound like a coach.” He was grumbling, but good-naturedly so. It set something free in Yuuri’s gut.

            “You mean, I’m starting to sound like _you?_ ” He raised an eyebrow, feeling a little bit bold.

            Victor laughed, almost snorting into his tea. _Bullseye._ “Yeah! Yeah, I guess so.”

            Someone must have left a light bulb on for too long in Yuuri’s belly, because it suddenly felt very, _very_ warm in there. He didn’t dislike the feeling.

 

            Victor, despite all his whine-laced begging to help with cleanup and chores, actually retreated to the couch for a round of hot compresses without _that_ much fuss. Yuuri decided to splurge on a good, long shower, feeling belatedly funky from his jog with Makkachin.

            He forgot to grab a change of clothes beforehand, and had to go zipping into the bedroom clad in only a damp towel. It was _way too cold_ to go running around barefoot, even after a hot shower, he decided.

            Oh, that’s right. St. Petersburg. _Duh_. He almost laughed at himself. It felt too normal, too like _home_ for St. Petersburg. Didn’t it?

_Hmm._

            But then Yuuri stopped in his tracks the instant he crossed the threshold.

            Victor had made their bed. Not as neatly as usual, sure, but it was made nonetheless.

            Had it _hurt?_ Having to lean over and stretch to reach the comforter and plant the pillows back against the headboard? It probably did.

            Yuuri didn’t think he’d ever loved the man as much as he did in that moment. Which was saying something.

            Which was also kind of weird, he thought, because _what the hell?_ Of all the moments… _really? This one?_

            _Whatever_.

            He threw on a pair of sweats and some black crew socks—one of them inside out at first, by accident. _Ugh._

            He took his time making sure his hair was dry and not a _complete_ mess before making his way back to the living room.

            Victor was sprawled out on the couch, legs propped up on an armrest, face half-hidden by a book. He was wearing a small, slack-lipped smile, eyes slowly meandering back and forth as he read. Yuuri watched the rise and fall of his chest, the motion smooth as the sea in Hasetsu save for the moments where he huffed tiny chuckles in response to whatever he was reading.

He watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, watched his nose twitch, watched him blink his impossibly pale lashes. He watched the wiggle of his toes in within his socks—they looked remarkably like Yuuri’s _plain, practical_ black crew socks.

Oh.

 _Not fair._ Not fair at all.

            Yuuri jumped him.

            The book was banished to the floor, quickly forgotten. Yuuri’s glasses were quick to follow, keeping it company somewhere near the coffee table.

            Yuuri’s knees found ample space on either side of his fiancé’s narrow hips just as easily as his lips found Victor’s. Being on the receiving end of all those sweet, _giving_ kisses hadn’t been a _complete_ waste, apparently.

            Victor caught a quick breath of surprise, but Yuuri stole it, dragged it out of him with a _No, you’re mine right now_ that may or may not have been said aloud _._ Victor stared with eyes wide open for a whopping second and a half until Yuuri _made_ them fall shut with a few scratches to the back of his silver head and press of his tongue against the Russian’s.

            _Oh_.

            _Well_.

            Victor tasted like green tea and butter and something else, something light and sweet and refreshing. It threatened to make Yuuri dizzy for a moment, until Victor practically _moaned_ under him.

            _Oh._

_More?_

            _More_ , then. Much more.

            _Okay_. He could do more.

            His assignment was now to get Victor to make that noise again. _Okay._ He took a breath, felt the tremors in his chest quiet down completely and his body smooth into an easy line, hovering just over Victor’s.

He could do it. He could do _this._

            Yuuri didn’t know how long they’d been at it before coming up for air, but he _did_ know that he’d never seen Victor’s eyes look _quite like_ _that_. Had they ever been that _exact_ shade of turquoise? Had they ever glistened quite that bright, been quite that wide, that _unfocused,_ almost unseeing? Did Victor always have a little navy spot _right there_ on the right side of his left iris, mirrored on the other side by one just a touch smaller?

            Victor panted beneath him, arms still limp at his sides, a marionette with its strings cut. “Yu- _Yuuri?_ ”

            “Was that okay?” he cut in, suddenly feeling a flush coming on as his brain returned to somewhere in the relevant solar system.

            “Mhmm?” Victor kept blinking like was in _St. Isaac’s Cathedral_ , kneeling before a specter of Mother Mary. Yuuri kind of wished he would stop, since every blink meant an instant that his eyes were hidden behind his pale lids, and _good God_ his eyes were just too _beautiful_ to be hidden at all. It was a sin.

            It should probably have been awkward to be staring at each other like that for so long. Right?

            Was it? Not really, Yuuri decided. His own chest felt quiet, for a change, though beneath his hands, Victor felt a bit like what Yuuri thought a bubbling brook might _feel_ like, if one could be caged up and touched so casually.

            “Yuuri,” Victor said, more slowly this time, “This week, well, sometimes you looked…I don’t know, a little upset? Did this…?” He swallowed.

            “Have something to do with that?” Yuuri finished for him. He received a slow nod and another set of dazed blinks. “Um…I guess, yeah.” He finally looked down, burning a hole into Victor’s gently heaving chest with his eyes. “I wasn’t mad or anything. I just kept losing my nerve to try anything, and then I tried to drop hints and even just _ask_ you directly, but…” He shrugged. “It was never the right time, I guess.”

            Victor was silent for a long while: still and limp, just breathing heavily.

            “You’re…really good at it,” the Russian finally mumbled.

            Yuuri would probably get whiplash from how fast his head snapped up at that. “W-What?”

            Victor was blushing.

            _Blushing._ Like a not-quite-ripe tomato.

            It was a good look on him.

            “I said…that you’re really good at it,” he repeated, louder. He glanced off to the side, but some sort of Cheshire-cat-grin crossed his face. “Could we do it again? Maybe I could try something, too?”

            Yuuri’s chest lost its quietness for a moment, but he didn’t really mind. “Um, sure. Okay. Yeah.”

            _Suave, Katsuki Yuuri was not._ Nothing new there. But _what the hell_ , he’d just _French kissed_ Victor Nikiforov. And he’d _liked_ it—damn, they’d _both_ liked it. He could certainly do it again.

            So he did.

            But _what the hell_ was _Victor_ doing?

            “Ow!” Yuuri yelped, just as he was starting to get the hang of working the tip of his tongue against the base of Victor’s. He pulled back, putting a hand to his own mouth. “What was _that?_ ”

            “I bit you.” Victor looked…smug? No, not quite; he had looked proud for half a second, until Yuuri had retreated. Now he just looked confused, and a little anxious.

            Maybe even a little _wounded._ Which was kind of ironic, really.

            “Like hell you did! That _hurt!_ What was that all about?” Yuuri ran a thumb over the new raw spot on his lower lip; his mouth tasted vaguely metallic.

            “Yuuri?” Victor sounded quite small, all of a sudden. “Did I—oh, _shit_ , you’re bleeding, aren’t you?”

            “It’s fine, just—why would you _do_ that?” Yuuri ran a hand through his black locks, brushing them back and out of his face as he looked down at his fiancé.

            “Isn’t it erotic? I always used to like getting bit.” Victor shifted his eyes away.

            Yuuri’s hand froze in his hair. “Like _that?_ ”

            “Um…I don’t know? I _think_ so?”

            Yuuri sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Victor, I may not even remotely be an expert on…on _things_ like this, but I don’t think you’re supposed to bite _that hard_.”

            “Really?” Victor sounded _so confused_ ; Yuuri looked down to see him puffing his chest out, brows quirked _._ “But, biting is hot and aggressive, right? Like, you know: the big bad wolf is coming after the little piggies and then _rawr!_ Right?”

            Yuuri almost laughed.

            No, actually, he _did_ laugh. Hard enough to snort a bit.

            “Yuuri!” Victor whined. “Don’t make fun of me!”

            “Then don’t make analogies that reference pigs, you dork. You’re lucky I’m laughing.”

            Victor blanched. “What—oh, _oh!_ Oh, _shit_ , Yuuri, I didn’t mean it like _that_ , you know that I—”

            “I know, I know.” Yuuri tried to flash a good-natured smile. It may have come out as a smirk instead. _Oh well._ “Look, just be a little more gentle if you’re going to try things like that with me, okay?”

            Victor’s frame relaxed again. “Says the man who attacked his _wounded coach_ while he was _helpless and distracted_.” _Wait._ Victor was pouting. _Actually_ _pouting_.

            Except for his eyes.

            They were glassy again and _oh_. There was still something else going on here, wasn’t there?

            _God,_ this man…

            “You’re not my coach right now.” Yuuri poked him in the chest. “Not in this apartment. Right?”

            He watched the shifting expressions on Victor’s face, expressions he knew fairly well by now: surprise and wonder, but then…embarrassment? And something akin to joy, and eventually something soft and _vulnerable_ and—

            _Not fair._

            “Can I kiss you again?”

            “Psh, _now_ you ask?” Victor was teasing, now, sure, but his hands had finally found the ability to move and were grasping at the small of Yuuri’s back.

            Yuuri didn’t wait for an answer, diving right back in.

            _It just takes practice, right?_

            He nibbled, just a little, once or twice on Victor’s lower lip. Barely a touch of teeth to delicate skin, and Victor practically _cried_ like a she-cat in heat.

            It was Yuuri’s turn to be smug, as he pulled their lips apart with an obscene _smack_. He’d probably go red from it later, when he actually had time to think about all of this. “I think _that’s_ how bites are supposed to go, yeah?”

            Victor didn’t answer, instead pulling the younger male down to crash into his chest, burying his scarlet-painted face into Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri chuckled at the gesture.

            He glanced over the armrest of the sofa and _oh_ , that’s where his glasses went; he reached down to grab them, shifting to put them back onto his face.

            And right in his line of sight was Victor’s book, splayed open spine- and cover-side up. He squinted out of habit as he tried to decode the Cyrillic and took in the plethora of images accompanying the text.

            “Victor,” he said, slowly, “were you seriously reading a book on sea otters?”

            Victor squeezed him more tightly, making him squeak. “They’re _aquatic_ _puppies,_ Yuuri! We have to get one! Please?”

            “Victor, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

            The older man was quickly degenerating into a laughing, squirming mess, and Yuuri was…okay with it, really. More than okay with it, if he was honest.

            He got up, looking back for a moment longer than completely necessary just to take in Victor’s amused face, but was surprised to see the other practically scramble to sit upright as soon as Yuuri had left.

            “Y-Yuuri, where are you going?” he blurted, wincing in delayed reaction to the sudden movement. He rubbed at his own thigh with a quiet, strained whine.

            “Um, the kitchen?” Yuuri quirked a brow at him. “I was going to make you tea, and I think you’re due for more ibuprofen, right?”

            “O-Oh. Okay.” Victor looked…crestfallen? Disappointed?

            Was he expecting _more_ or something? Because there was _no way_ they were doing anything beyond kissing or _kissing_ today with him _this sore_. Yuuri wasn’t reckless, and as nice as those _kisses_ had been, he was more than capable of putting his foot down on _Eros_ and saying no.

            At least, he hoped he was capable of that. It was pretty hard just walking away to the kitchen to busy himself with Victor looking down at his own lap _like that_. Yuuri gave Makkachin’s ears a thorough scritching while he waited on the kettle.

            Well, at least he could sit with Victor and have some tea with him. That would probably be pretty nice.

            It was—of _course_ it was—except that it was _really quiet_ , which was _really weird._ Not uncomfortably so, seeing as Victor kept leaning against his side whenever he wasn’t actively sipping at his tea or shifting around, trying to find some sort of comfortable position to sit upright in.

            When both mugs were drained, Yuuri made a move to get up again, of course, but was stopped by a tug on his shirtsleeve.

            “Victor?”  
            “Would you stay? I think we should talk.” Oh, _those words_ , they were never good, right? Yuuri knew as much from American television. “Ah, I _want_ to talk,” Victor added, gaze thrown onto the floor. That eased away some of the uncalled-for mental images Yuuri had started drawing up.

            “Um, sure, of course we can talk.” Yuuri didn’t really know what else to say, especially when Victor promptly perked up, turning to him with big eyes and opening his arms wide like a little child asking to be picked up by their parent. The action made Yuuri’s chest feel tight, and he tried to burn the sight into his brain like a tattoo.

            They had to shuffle around a bit, until Victor was on his back again, Yuuri settled in between his legs and facedown against the Russian’s chest. Victor was a bit stiff, which wasn’t quite right.

            “Are you sure this doesn’t hurt?”

            “Hmm? Oh, it’s fine, Yuuri, don’t worry about it.” There was that _bullshit smile_.

            “That doesn’t answer my question.” Yuuri all but glared up at him, but decided to pinch at the little tab of flesh above his hip instead, just enough to tease.

It probably hurt: this position probably bothered Victor’s aching muscles, but would he actually _say it?_ Not likely. Yuuri sighed. “Okay, then are you comfortable, at list?” he pressed.

            A _real_ smile blossomed across Victor’s face at that. “Yes! Very much so. Thank-you, Yuuri.”

            And even though he was definitely in some measure of pain, which Yuuri wanted to feel guilty about, he couldn’t help but believe the words, even if he didn’t quite understand _why_ or what was going through Victor’s head.

            “What did you want to talk about?”

            Victor raised a hand to weave his fingers into Yuuri’s hair, an odd expression taking over his face. “Well.” He paused, just breathing, his sternum buoying beneath Yuuri’s chin for a solid minute. “I’m just curious—you said something earlier, about the timing not being right? About not asking for us to kiss like that, because it was a bad time, or something?” His nose twitched and the space between his pale brows wrinkled. “What did you mean by that?”

            Yuuri’s mouth went dry; _how_ —how was he supposed to—to _explain_ something like that? Was he supposed to just _say_ that Victor was distracted _all the time_ , whenever Yuuri actually felt something like—like—

            Like _desire?_

 _Hell no._ He couldn’t say that. He could hardly even _think_ that.

            _Dammit._ He was taking too long to answer. He knew it. If he was lucky, Victor would drop the subject—but _no_ , that wouldn’t be fair, would it? Victor had asked a question, and he deserved an answer, didn’t he?

            Of course he did. And Yuuri loved him, so why couldn’t he answer something simple like this?

            Yuuri looked up from where he’d been studying the fabric on Victor’s sleeve, and opened his mouth to speak, but—

            But nothing came out.

            Victor was studying him, obviously so.

            Still nothing. Yuuri just looked up at his terse face, at the look in his eyes that the Russian usually got when he was trying to work out something _important_ , like figuring out a detail in a routine or how to alter a costume.

            _I can’t say it. Dammit, I can’t say it._

            Victor’s face suddenly brightened, and he tilted his head to one side; it was a look Yuuri knew very, very well. “You know, Yuuri,” he said, voice soft; he cleared his throat in the pause there. “You know that you can ask me for anything, at any time, right? You don’t have to keep quiet just because…oh I don’t know, you think you’re sparing my feelings, or you’re waiting for a good time to ask, or…I don’t know, whatever the reason is.” The hand still in Yuuri’s hair drifted down to his neck, a light, warm weight. “You _do_ know that, right?”

            _Oh._

_Okay._

            Yuuri reached for Victor’s free hand, not entwining their fingers but just seeking something to hold onto. “I do now, I guess.” He shrugged.

            Victor tensed below him, and it was such an _odd_ feeling, and such _odd_ timing, too, Yuuri thought.

“Oh.” _What?_

Yuuri looked up to see that wide-eyed, blinking-too-much expression on Victor’s face again. “Victor? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Just—” He swallowed hard. “It’s just, I’m sorry.”  
“Sorry?” Yuuri pushed himself up by the elbows to see better.

“I’m sorry that wasn’t clear.” He looked down and to the side a bit. “That probably felt pretty awful for you, didn’t it?”

 _No, not at all, I was fine_ , Yuuri thought, but that wasn’t entirely true. He decided not to answer, squeezing Victor’s hand instead and throwing him a smirk that he hoped said _it’s okay_. “Well, then you know you can ask me for things anytime, too, right?”

Victor jolted, which was _really_ weird, but then suddenly Yuuri could have sworn he was watching the older man try _katsudon_ for the first time all over again. Victor didn’t answer, either, but he did pull Yuuri tight and flush against himself with a long, huffed sigh.

Yuuri let him, of course. How could he _not?_

It felt pretty good, too. He felt a flush coming on, but didn’t even consider fighting it, letting his body relax instead.

“Can I ask you for something now, then?” Victor squeaked out suddenly.

“Hmm? Sure, what is it?”

“Would you read to me?”

Yuuri’s eyes, which had _just started to drift shut_ , snapped right back open. “P-Pardon?”

“Your mom sent you a box with some of your things a couple weeks ago, right? With the tea?”

“Well, yeah, but Victor, those books are in Japanese. I mean, I could translate as I go along, but—”

“No, no!” Victor fidgeted, hips wriggling. “I mean if you wanted to, that’d be okay, of course! But, I haven’t heard you _really_ speak Japanese in a long time. It’d be…kind of nice?” He sounded terribly sheepish right then, and it squeezed at Yuuri’s innards.

_Ah. Okay._

He got up from the couch and darted to the office-turned-guest-room, pulled a few books off the shelves, and came back to find—

_Ah, crap._

Victor was sitting upright again, knees pulled up to his chest, arms tight around them. His head was down, porcelain face hidden by the curtain of his hair.

Oh. He probably should have said something before running off. _Dammit._

“Um,” Yuuri said, helpfully, having to clear his throat loudly a few times to speak around the lump in it. “I’ve got a couple that I’ve read before—one’s on the political history of ancient Rome, the other’s about the French Impressionist movement—a-and then there are a couple of novels I never got around to. One’s a science-fiction thing Nishigori gave me when we were in high school, and the other is some teen romance that Phichit used to brag about, I think. Don’t tell him I never read it, please.”

He had failed to notice precisely when Victor had looked up, but when he glanced up from the line of paperbacks he’d been laying out on the coffee table, he wasn’t expecting to see Victor _crying_.

Victor apparently hadn’t noticed his own tears either, however, and a blinding grin took over his entire face, stretching his cheeks like he was some species of overgrown chipmunk. “Oh! It doesn’t matter; what would _you_ like best, Yuuri?”

Yuuri had watched his crystalline eyes as they roamed over the covers, noting how his gaze kept returning to the art book. “The one on Impressionism was really well-written; it was actually a textbook from one of my classes when I was in university, but I liked it enough to keep it.” He picked it up and sat beside his fiancé. “Do you like French art, Victor?”

“Oh, it’s lovely, I think.” The words sounded understated, calm, _classy_ , but the look on Victor’s face when Yuuri had brought the book over was anything _but_.

 _Bingo_.

“Okay; here, you need to get comfortable if we’re going to share the couch.”

“Mmhmm.”

Yuuri ended up pressed into one corner of the sofa with the long, lanky form of the Russian man, who lay on his side, sprawling easily between his legs. Victor’s feet were hanging off the other end of the sofa and most of his torso fit quite nicely pillowed atop Yuuri’s own, an actual pillow providing adequate cushioning between his aching knees.

It wasn’t like Yuuri was used to reading aloud—he’d hated being called on in gradeschool, honestly. He used to stutter or just clam up, overcome with nerves and feeling the pressure to _get things perfectly_ or else face the ridicule of his classmates and disappointment of his teachers.

But this was different, and Yuuri thought he might actually get _very_ used to reading aloud in his mother tongue to Victor.

It was kind of like a task, which he _knew_ he could do and _do well,_ but also… _not._ Not a task, maybe, just something to _do_ , silly as it might be.

He caught Victor running a finger affectionately across an example from Caillebotte’s oeuvre, and felt such a mixture of wanting to _give_ and _take_ right then. Yuuri couldn’t be bothered to categorize the feeling, whether _Eros_ or maybe something giving, something closer to _Agape_ , or something else entirely, but _whatever._

He took his time reading that page, lingering so Victor could keep tracing along the smears that made up the sun-kissed field.

He reminded himself to give the Russian a kiss and a _kiss_ later.


End file.
